Prologue

 

     Two Watchers—one large and dark, the other lean and muscular—sneaked down a long hallway filled with alcoves on both sides, ending at a pair of massive double golden doors, when suddenly the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from around the corner heading toward them.

     “In here and don’t move.” The lean Watcher shoved his companion into the last alcove at the end of the hall.

     Two cherubim guards had turned the corner and marched down the hall toward the golden doors, while the two Watchers slumped in the shadows, praying for them to pass the alcove without noticing. The six-winged, fearsome guards—whose wings were covered with eyes—could strike terror even in the heavenly host.

     The lean Watcher covered his partner’s mouth to keep him quiet and had his hand batted away for his effort. “Guards are coming,” the lean Watcher hissed without moving his lips.

     Flattened against the shadowed back wall, they watched the two enormous cherubim as they stalked past the alcove opening with nary a glance inside. The Watchers held their breath until the two angel guards had gone in and checked the chamber behind the golden doors, then passed back by the alcove on their way out. Two deep sighs of relief sounded in the alcove, and the lean Watcher pushed his partner forward and out the opening as silently as possible. The two trespassers eased open the right-side golden door, slipped inside, and closed it with a barely audible click.

     “Whew,” Lean said, giving another hard exhale. “We made it.”

    “Made it? Are you crazy? We’ll be lucky just to survive a B & E of the Great Prince's chambers. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” the dark Watcher grumped.

     “We didn’t really break in since the door wasn’t locked, and I’ve done this before,” Lean told him. “It’s the only way to get time with the great archangel, or else you wait an eternity out at the gate.”

     “You mean the gate where he told all of us Watchers to await his possible summons? That gate?” the dark Watcher growled.

     “Yeah, that exact one,” Lean replied unconcerned. “Which is why you and I have already finished our mission in College Park, and we’re back here to get our redemption instead of still waiting out at the gate for who knows how long?” His hands went to his hips. “Would you rather be out there?”

     The dark Watcher narrowed his eyes. “What I want is to shed this earthly form from our last mission, collect my redemption, and get my new assignment up here. Maybe even a spot in the Lord of Heaven’s Army.”

     Lean nodded. “Yeah, that would be cool. So this is where we need to be.”

     “You'd better hope you’re not scotching our chances with this stunt, or I’ll send you back to Satan myself. I still can’t believe we screwed up the greatest job we could ever have in the first place.”

     Like the other Watchers, they had once had the best gig going—one job, Protect and Serve—and they had blown it along with the other cursed and exiled angels. Falling for some smooth talk from the Evil One and a chance at more. Ending up with promises not kept. Offers ignored. Until it was too late . . . for all of them.

     Before either Watcher could blink, the antechamber shuddered and rocked like the buildings on Earth did during one of their earthquakes, almost throwing the two off their feet, and an explosion of light blinded them.

     A deafening voice blasted them from the harsh glare. “How dare you invade my chambers!”

     Both Watchers froze, afraid to move, with the tremors and the blindness and the terrifying rage that engulfed them. In a paralyzed heartbeat, the quaking and brilliance dissipated, leaving only a supreme being with a murderous visage. A figure known to all divine beings—the Archangel Michael, Chief of the Angels and the Heavenly Champion.

     “You again!” Michael’s terrifying glare fixed on the Lean Watcher, who foolishly grinned back.

     “Me,” Lean proudly proclaimed, his grin broadening to a beaming smile.

     The dark Watcher groaned.

     “Why am I not surprised?” Michael retorted. “You do realize I should end you for this disobedience.”

     The smile vanished, and both Watchers groaned in unison.

     “But—” Lean protested.

     “But what?" Michael’s voice was so full of anger that both Watchers fell silent in the antechamber.

     “But What? Tell me!”

     There would be no denying this lethal demand.

     Lean stepped forward. “I . . . I mean we . . .”

     The dark Watcher groaned again and dropped his head to stare at his boots.

     “C-couldn’t wait to tell you that we served our p-penance successfully and I thought . . .”

     “You thought?” Michael cut him off, the seething outrage in his voice unmistakable.

     “Well, yeah. I figured we could claim our parole now that the mission was finished.”

     Both watchers looked hopefully toward the Great Prince.

     “Thought so, did you?”

     Lean’s brows snapped together. “All went well. We were successful on our mission.” He slammed his mouth shut after receiving another menacing glare.

     “So you thought you had somehow earned penance, did you?” Michael sneered.

     “Well, yeah.” Lean suddenly grew wary.

     “You mean for your original transgression?”

     Huh?

     Both Watchers stared.

     “And what of the subsequent transgression?”

     “The subsequent one?” Lean bleakly asked.

     “Breaking into my private chambers . . . the first time.”

     Uh-oh.

     A slight aftershock from the earlier quake vibrated the floor beneath the Watchers’ feet, and both figures cautiously checked their surroundings.

     “I do not like to be disobeyed. Worse yet, I dislike being made a fool of by not having my own chambers secured.”

     Lean exhaled sharply. “Did I, uh, add to the list of my transgressions?”

     “Make that we.”

     The dark Watcher made a choking sound and took a step back.

     “Okay, did we add to the list?” Lean wanted to know.

     “What do you think?” Michael snapped.

     “Um, I hope not?” A question, not a statement.

     “Well, you hoped wrong. And yet, you’ve just done it again.”

     Silence again reigned in the chamber. Not even a breath was taken.

     Was this it? Their end? After everything they had been through?

     “What say you now, Betrayer?” Michael’s voice boomed.

     “May we please have more penance?’ Lean pleaded and got a kick in the calf from the dark Watcher.

     “Better that than the alternative,” he hissed at his glaring partner.

     “I was thinking more along the lines of just desserts,” Michael growled. “For you will surely deserve any next mission you might be assigned.”

     “Just desserts?” Lean asked somberly.

     “You two may have finally succeeded with your last mission, but you were reckless, running loose and out of control,” Michael accused.

     The dark Watcher took another step back and murmured. “I knew it.”

     “Reckless?” Lean sputtered. “We didn’t exactly run loose . . .”

     “Did you or did you not strike a human during your mission?”

     Lean’s lips formed a hard line.

     “Well?” Michael pressed.

     “He deserved it,” Lean grumbled. “We can’t coddle them. We don’t have time. We only get one chance to complete our mission. If we have to be tough on them . . .” He shrugged.

     Michael frowned darkly. “We have rules.”

     “But the guy was abusive,” Lean argued defiantly. “He needed an object lesson.”

     “Maybe it’s you who needs the object lesson. And you still have another mission to complete for breaking into my private chambers.” Michael’s glittering eyes narrowed. “The first time.”

     “I told you we should have waited at the gate,” the dark Watcher bitched at his partner, his voice pitched low.

     “Correct.”

     Evidently not low enough to keep the Great Prince from hearing.

     “Keep this up, and you two will be doing penance for all eternity,” Michael added grimly.

     Lean ducked his head and avoided eye contact with his partner, knowing it would earn him one ugly stink eye.

     “Now your new mission is even more challenging than the last, as it is the penance for your additional transgression,” Michael was saying. "Thus, I will be the one to select your who-you-be-on-Earth form this time, not you.”

     Lean’s head snapped up. “What?”

     “You heard me,” Michael growled. “An extra challenge for you to face to cure your wild, reckless ways. You will learn to make every mission run quietly and smoothly, or you’ll keep completing them until you get it right.”

     Lean looked as though he would argue but thought better of it.

     The Great Prince narrowed his eyes. “Now gather your things and wait at the double doors.”

     The dark Watcher didn’t move when Lean headed for the doors, no doubt hoping Michael wouldn’t notice him off to the side, where he’d managed to skulk.

     No such luck. The Great Prince faced the remaining Watcher. “Well?”

     “May I be excused, my Prince?” the dark Watcher politely asked.

     “Excused? Surely you jest.”

     The dark Watcher stared. Oh boy.

     “You’ve worked with him. Your partner needs someone to be a Watcher over him,” Michael declared disgustedly.

     “That’s for sure,” the dark Watcher muttered under his breath.

     “What was that?”

     “Uh, nothing, my Prince.” The dark Watcher bowed his head.

     “I told your partner before he chose you for that last mission that both your fates now rested on his shoulders,” Michael informed him.

     Startled, the dark Watcher’s head bucked up. “He never told me that!”

     “I don’t suppose he did, but now I am. Your fate is linked to his. He will now have another penance mission to complete.”

     “And my fate?” the dark Watcher couldn’t help but ask.

     Michael sighed heavily. “I don’t wish to punish you for his transgression, but his new mission is monumental this time. No small risk indeed. And he will need someone to watch over him.”

     The dark Watcher exhaled hard. “I suppose that would be me.”

     Michael nodded once. “That would be you.”

     The dark Watcher’s shoulders slumped.

     “Good luck, Watcher. With this mission, you’ll need it.” A hint of a smile twitched at the Great Prince’s lips.

     Not a good sign.

     “But we get to stay as your Watchers, don’t we?” Lean called from the double doors when the dark Watcher reached his side.

     “We’ll see,” Michael replied enigmatically.

     The double-chamber doors suddenly swung open, and Michael’s cherubim guards stormed in and encircled the two terrified Watchers.

     “You two thought you scrambled past us, did you?” the biggest guard snarled at them. “We had our orders just like you. Now, let’s go. This mission should be real interesting, and you don’t want to be late getting the new earthly form the Great Prince chose for you, now do you?” The guard gave them each a firm shove in the back to get them moving.

     Lean cast one glance back into the chamber and saw something he never expected to see.

     The Archangel smiled.

     “We’ll see, we’ll see,” the dark Watcher groused at his partner. “This is all your doing.”

     “Be nice.” Lean grinned at him. “Like Archangel Michael ordered, our next mission is my doing until I get it right. You’re just there to watch over me.”

 

 

Chapter One

 

     The bridge is out. He can’t get across.

     Corinna Rigatero wiped her muddy hands on her equally muddy jeans and jogged down the entrance drive to the Wapassa Creek Bridge, where a mail truck sat idling.

     Snowmelt and a heavy spring rain had caused the creek to rise above flood stage the week before, and erosion had taken care of the rest. The century-old, two-lane wooden bridge now tilted low on the town side where heavy currents—aided by the erosion—had weakened the end pilings. Vehicles could no longer risk crossing, but pedestrians had no such worries, and she trotted across to meet the mail truck.

     An older gentleman with snow-white hair glanced up from the driver’s seat as she approached. “I was just about to walk up to the house with your mail, but I’m thankful you saved me the trip.” He smiled. “Corinna, isn’t it?”

     “Have we met?” she asked.

     This must be a new mailman.

     He chuckled and held up a short stack of mail. “No, but your name is on most of these.”

     He handed over the stack of envelopes. Her delivery wasn’t much, but then it never was. Bel Tesoro’s utility bills were on computerized auto-pay, the resort’s water came from Wapassa Creek, and all the resort cabins were on septic tanks. She took the resort’s trash in her pickup truck to the Bannock County drop-off site twice a week, and since all her other expenses were on a cash basis, her mail was mostly junk.

     “If anyone knows your name, it’s the mailman.” She grinned and held out a hand, which he shook. “Most folks call me Cory.”

     “It’s nice to meet you, Cory. I’m Mitt Flügeln.”

     “That’s a different name. What nationality would that be?”

     “It’s German. I’m helping out temporarily on the mail route.”

     “Well, it was nice meeting you, Mitt.” She turned to go.

     “Wait!” He held up a box. “You have a package too.”

     Cory took the box from him and stared hard at the postmark—Oceanside, California.

     “Everything all right?” Mitt called. “You went a little pale on me.”

     “I’m fine. Thanks again.”

     Cory didn’t wait for his goodbye and jogged back across the bridge. When she heard the mail truck drive away, she sped up and headed straight for the house.

     Brian. The package could be from Brian.

     Taking the stairs two at a time in the old Victorian house, she skidded to a halt in her bedroom, tossed the stack of mail on the bed, set the brown-paper package next to the pile, and closed and locked her door. Her birthday was in three days. Had he remembered?

     Cory hadn’t heard from her older brother Brian in six long years. Brian had enlisted in the Navy eight years earlier and joined the SEAL teams two years after that. His last trip home had been after he passed BUD/S training with the SEALs. He had looked happier than she’d ever seen him, and Brian had brought along his BUD/S swim buddy. She refused to think of him now. She hadn’t laid eyes on either one of them since that last trip home.

     Fingers trembling, she dug in a dresser drawer for a pair of scissors to slice open the packing tape. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

     Cory had believed Brian to be deceased for the past two years, though no naval officials had ever shown up at the resort with the news. Two years after Brian’s last visit, their father, Hutch, had received an official notification from the Navy stating that Brian had been classified as MIA. No amount of phone calls, emails, or letters had given Cory any additional information.

     She hadn’t wanted Brian to join the SEALs, knowing he might be sent into the most dangerous situations. When Cory expressed her concern, her brother just laughed. She can still hear his voice that brisk autumn afternoon down by the lake.

     “I’m the one who needs to worry, not you,” Brian told her. “I’m leaving you here all alone.”

     “Why worry about me? I have Dad and Vern.”

     “Dad is half my worry. He won’t keep an eye on you.” His expression turned grim. “All our father cares about is getting our witch of a stepmother, Sheila, to come back.”

     Cory winced at the memory. Their own mother had died when Cory was five, and she knew their stepmother had made Brian’s life at the resort a living hell and eventually succeeded in running him off. Sheila was the reason he had joined the Navy in the first place. The irony of the story was that Sheila had deserted their father two months after Brian’s enlistment. She had found a boyfriend on the side and taken off during the night, never to be heard from again. No loss for Cory since Sheila had never been much of a mother to the young girl after she married Hutch Rigatero.

     “Then don’t leave me behind,” Cory begged Brian that autumn afternoon. “Take me with you to San Diego.”

     “You would never be happy anywhere but Bel Tesoro, Little Bit.”

     She knew in her heart Brian was right, so she just hugged him hard and warned him to be careful.

     “I prayed for a Watcher for you last night to dog your steps while I’m gone,” Brian whispered into her hair.

     Shocked, she leaned back. “You did?”

     He nodded.

     “You mean like the Watchers that Vern told us stories about as kids?”

     Their resort's handyman loved sharing stories with Brian and Cory whenever they sat by the fire pit, roasting marshmallows on summer nights. His favorite was about the great battle in heaven, when the Watchers chose the losing side and the archangel Michael banished them, along with Satan, down to Earth. However, some Watchers had been duped by lies and later returned to beg for redemption.

     “Yep, Vern always said the Watchers were fallen angels given the toughest assignments to try to get back into heaven. Guarding you and keeping you out of trouble would qualify as one of those tough assignments.”

     Cory frowned and bumped him hard with her shoulder. “Nuh uh.”

     “Oh yeah, it would.” Brian grinned at his sister. “Your Watcher would have his work cut out for him, just like SEALs are given the toughest jobs. I wanted you to have the best watching over you if I couldn’t be here.”

     Her eyes filled with tears, and Brian pulled her into his arms for a hug.

     “Don’t cry, little bit. You have to believe too,” Brian insisted, his voice rough with emotion. “For the Watcher to come. Just like Vern always tells us.”

     She swiped at the few tears that escaped and trickled down her cheeks.

     “Tell me you do,” he demanded. “Promise me.”

     “I promise.”

     Cory had believed in her Watcher for years, until everything had fallen apart. Now she wasn’t so sure. Maybe because she hadn’t heard from Brian in so long.

     Slicing through the packing tape, she tried to gulp air into her lungs. Maybe the package wasn’t from Brian. But who else would send her something from Oceanside, which happens to be right next door to San Diego and the Coronado naval base? Coronado was listed as Brian’s last known address.

     She had called and written naval officials dozens of times trying to locate her brother and had only met with stonewalls—except for one young lieutenant who admitted her brother’s records had been sealed. Someone on base had found out the lieutenant had spoken with her, and she never got through to the officer again.

     She managed a slow, deep breath and peeled back the box flap. Shredded paper sprang out of the opening. She removed handfuls of the crinkly paper, then reached back in and drew out a horse statue with a tiny note card tied around its neck. The white stallion reared up from its perch atop a two-inch-thick mahogany base. Cory removed the note from the horse’s neck and unfolded the small card.

 

You will find we are all flawed if you search for answers. The truth will set us free.

Happy Birthday,

B.

 

     Tears stung the backs of her eyelids, and she blinked them back, growing angry as she stared at the note.

     No I’m sorry for not calling, sis.

     No I miss you, little bit.

     No I love you.

     Just Happy Birthday and a cryptic message.

     Her first birthday present—no, her first contact—from Brian in years turned out to be a stupid horse statue and a stupider note. Her brother was alive and had been ignoring her all this time. His blatant disregard for her feelings made her chest tighten and her eyes sting. Brian had deserted her for six long years with no explanation, knowing he was all Cory had.

     She picked up the statue, intending to heave it across the room, then thought better of the idea. She had stopped crying over Brian two years ago, and she refused to shed tears now. She nestled the horse statue back into its box, shoved the note inside, and piled in the shredded paper. Carefully closing and re-taping the lid, she walked into her closet and pushed the package onto the highest shelf and as far back in the dark corner as she could get it.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

     “You'd better have a seat, Lieutenant.” Admiral Gaynor pointed him to a chair in front of his desk.

     Lt. Sean MacKay warily eyed his commanding officer but did as requested.

     “The search is off,” Gaynor said grimly. “His body has been recovered, or what’s left.”

     MacKay sank back in the chair. This he hadn’t expected when ordered to appear in the admiral’s office at Coronado at thirteen hundred that May afternoon. The Navy’s search for MacKay’s best friend had officially ended.

     Gaynor’s last words hit him all at once. “What do you mean, what’s left?”

     Gaynor’s eyes revealed unmistakable pain. “His body had been burned beyond recognition.”

     “How do you know—”

     Gaynor raised his hand. “His scorched dog tags were still hanging around his neck.”

     “But someone could—”

     “We’re getting the dental records checked. At least, we’re trying.”

     “Trying?”

     Gaynor grimaced. “I had hoped to avoid this part of the conversation, Mac.”

     The admiral understood how difficult this was for him and used his SEAL nickname, Mac, instead of Lt. MacKay. His SEAL team had given him the nickname Mac shortly after he arrived—not as a shortened form of MacKay, though people outside the team thought so. His teammates called him Mac the Knife because of his skill with various-sized blades. The nickname had persisted even after he had transferred to the Black Ops unit.

     “Some type of high-temperature accelerant had been used on the body. Even the teeth were damaged,” the admiral went on. “We’ve sent them to a forensic anthropologist for identification.”

     The air whooshed from Mac’s lungs in a violent exhale. Both hands curled into fists. “Could they tell if Blue had been tortured?”

     Gaynor shook his head no.

     This wasn’t possible. Blue couldn’t be gone. Blue was his swim buddy in BUD/S, his best friend, his family ever since . . .

     Gaynor took a seat in the chair next to Mac. “There’s more.”

     “I’m going to hate this, aren’t I?”

     “We think . . .” Gaynor cleared his throat. “No, we know that Lieutenant Rigatero turned before he was murdered.”

     “What?” Mac came out of his chair. “That’s bullshit, sir, and you know it!”

     Gaynor used his friend’s formal title of Lieutenant Rigatero instead of his SEAL nickname. Brian was known as Blue—short for police blue—because he always, always followed the rules exactly and pushed his teammates to do the same.

     For the last few years, Mac and Blue were part of a small but elite Black Ops counter-terrorism team. Gaynor had handpicked their eight-man Black Ops team as a Special Mission Unit, with Blue and Mac, the two Lieutenants, in charge. The team had a more personal relationship with the admiral than other SEAL Teams. A bonus from facing death in every single mission. They were the best of the best, and no way any of the team could be traitors. Especially Blue.

     “Sit back down, Lieutenant,” the admiral barked, then softened his tone. “We have proof, Mac.”

     Impossible.

     “What proof?” he rasped.

     “Tapes—both audio and visual—of Rigatero negotiating with two representatives from Abdul-Nabbe’s group.”

     “Two!” Mac exclaimed. His throat had gone bone dry. He could barely swallow his own spit.

     “Yes, and they’re the worst of the bunch. The Syrians–as they are known by the FBI Counter-Terrorism boys—Farouq Nawar and Achar Aboudi.”

     Mac felt like he just took a kick to the gut. The Syrians. Every Black Ops soldier knew them and wanted a shot at those two. His heart screamed at him to deny the charges, to defend his best friend in the world, but his head couldn’t get past Gaynor’s proof.

     “I want to view the tapes,” he demanded.

     Gaynor shook his head. “No can do. You don’t have the proper clearance.”

     “But you do. You could fix it.”

     Gaynor again shook his head, but Mac kept going. “I have to hear it for myself. Blue was my best friend.”

     He stared intently into Gaynor’s eyes, struggling to swallow the lump in his throat. “Please, sir,” he begged.

     After a long pause, Gaynor heaved a resigned sigh. “All right. You two were always my favorites on the Middle East teams. I’m scheduled to review the tapes myself at 0700 tomorrow. Be in my office fifteen minutes before then.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

     Mac reached the outskirts of Clark, Washington, at eleven-thirty the next evening. After his early morning meeting with Gaynor, he had gone back to his bachelor quarters at North Island, Coronado Naval Base, to pack a duffel, load his Harley Road King into the back of his rig, and hit the road. He had driven straight through to Washington state, stopping only twice at rest areas on Interstate 5 for short power naps to keep himself going.

     He had made good time, but his mind remained a chaotic jumble during the ride, replaying what he’d seen and heard in the tape session with the admiral. Gaynor had agreed the audio was scratchy at best. Blue’s meeting had taken place underground, probably in a basement or even a cave.

     The tape showed Blue negotiating with Abdul-Nabbe’s associates, who were known rivals of the Islamic Jihad group that their Black Ops team had set up for a sting operation three days later. The sting aimed to steal, not buy, a new nerve-gas formula that the Jihad extremists were bringing to the meeting. So, how did Blue’s Syrian terrorists get their hands on the same formula?

     And dammit, we couldn’t hear what Brian said.

     Mac pummeled himself with that thought all the way through the Central Valley in California. He knew Blue. His teammate did not play outside the rules. Mac’s gut told him that if Blue had arranged a meeting with these guys, then Blue had found a way to do an end-around on their SEAL mission. Their Black Ops team had been after the blueprint for the new and improved nerve gas headed for Syria. Whoever controlled the formula would gain a new level of power in the Middle East, possibly even Afghanistan. The U.S. Navy wanted the formula to create antidotes and take down production facilities.

     What if Blue had managed to get in ahead of their Black Ops mission and secure the formula first? Blue’s job was recon. Always was. So, if there was a way to secure the formula early, he would find it. That sounded like his Blue.

     Mac shared those thoughts with Gaynor, who, after careful consideration, had—thankfully—agreed with the possibility.

     Blue had obtained the formula three days before the SEAL team sting with their targeted Islamic Jihad group—three days to either bring the formula back to base or dispose of it. He hadn’t returned the formula, and no thumb drive or documents were found with his remains. Gaynor assumed, probably correctly, that Blue had either hidden his acquisition or sent it to someone for safekeeping.

     Hence, Mac’s current trip to the small town of Clark, Washington.

     Gaynor suspected Blue might have sent the formula to his only living relative—his sister Cory Rigatero. Mac argued vehemently with Gaynor against this assumption, even breaking his promise to Blue and confessing to Gaynor that after he and Blue had joined the Black Ops unit, Blue had broken all contact with his sister.

     Blue even had an official-looking MIA notification prepared and sent to Cory and his father a year after Blue disappeared from sight. This way, if anyone ever tried to question Cory, she could honestly say she believed her brother to be missing in action. Blue did this to keep Cory safe, free from any fallout from his work.

     Mac had no family to cut off. He only had Blue.

What Mac had hidden from Gaynor was that Blue had secretly followed his sister’s life without her knowing.

     Blue and Mac had a swim buddy in BUD/S named Tom Hartley, who suffered a ruptured appendix during Hell Week and was forced to drop out. The two friends had kept in contact with Hartley. Their friend had gone back to school to become a chaplain and was working at the VA Hospital in Oceanside. Blue had contacted Hartley, who immediately agreed to help with Blue’s scheme.

     Blue, through Hartley, had then reached out to Bel Tesoro’s maintenance foreman, Vern Kroemer, to explain their plan to watch over Cory and the need for secrecy due to Blue’s line of work. Vern, a former Marine Recon, agreed immediately and started years of covert checking on Blue’s sister without her knowledge. Using his VA Hospital return address, Hartley exchanged letters and information with Vern Kroemer at Bel Tesoro. As far as they knew—and Vern swore it was true—no one in Clark was any wiser.

     The small town hadn’t changed at all since Mac’s last visit. All the lights were off as he drove through town, and his choices for lodging remained limited to two—Lewis Lake Lodge or Cory’s Bel Tesoro Resort. Not wanting to see Cory again without a full night’s sleep, Mac chose the Lewis Lake Lodge and paid more than he planned for a room. This occurred after Mac told the valet he would park his vehicle himself and ignored the bellman who reached for his duffel when he entered the lobby.

     The Lewis Lake Lodge was a luxury pine-log structure comprised of the main building and two long annex buildings on either side. The lobby had gone quiet by midnight, and the front desk clerk swiftly divested Mac of the exorbitant room rate. The woman had gone from charming to snotty in less than fifteen seconds after he said, “Just one night,” in answer to her question, “How long will you be staying?”

     He grabbed his key and receipt off the counter, glad to avoid saying good night to Miss Snotty, who had sprinted back to the office before he could get his wallet back in his pocket. He headed toward the corridor leading to the north annex, eager to relax in the comfortable king-sized bed in his overpriced room.

     Mac’s cell phone rang, startling him. “MacKay.”

     “Mac. Gaynor here.”

     “Yes, sir.” Mac automatically headed for the far end of the deserted lobby.

     “The FBI Counter-Terrorism team has reviewed the tapes and now suspects Rigatero of turning traitor.”

     “He didn’t turn!” Mac blurted.

     “You and I want to believe that, but we have to prove it first. If the FBI finds out about Rigatero’s sister and gets hold of the package, we’ll never see it again. We’ll never get to prove he is . . . was innocent.”

     “We don’t even know if there is a package.”

     “No, and neither do they. And another thing . . .” Gaynor’s deep sigh was plainly audible. “If The Syrians screwed up the deal and lost the formula, then Nawar and Aboudi can’t go back to Abdul-Nabbe. They’ll have to go after the formula themselves.”

     “How much time do we have? Will the FBI find Cory soon?” Mac wanted to know.

     “It’s what they do.”

     “What’s the time frame? Best guess?”

     “Could be a few weeks, but I wouldn’t rely on it. Once the FBI finds out who she is, they’ll send a team to Clark to check on her.”

     “Right.”

     “You’ve got to get to the sister first and find out if Lt. Rigatero sent her anything.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     “Will Rigatero’s sister recognize you?”

     “Unlikely, sir. She hasn’t seen me in six years.”

     But I’ve seen her plenty.

     “Then you better lose the beard and get a haircut. You look like a desperado. You don’t want to scare the poor girl.”

     Mac glanced in the lobby mirror at his dark, shaggy hair and the beard covering the lower half of his face, courtesy of his last Black Ops mission in the Middle East—with Blue. He hadn’t had the time or the desire to get cleaned up yet.

     “Might be better if she doesn’t recognize me just yet.”

     “What good will that do us?” Gaynor wanted to know.

     “Cory and I didn’t exactly part on the best of terms, sir.”

     “That’s just great.” The admiral’s disgusted exhale was clearly audible. “Well, do what you can to get back in the girl’s good graces, frogman. And get us that information we need.”

     “Right, sir.”

     “Good luck, Mac. Report your progress every forty-eight hours, or sooner if you find the package.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     Mac’s gut twisted over Gaynor’s news. The FBI would be searching for Cory, The Syrians would eventually come after Cory, and Mac had to keep her safe without revealing he expected company in Clark. Meanwhile, Cory Rigatero hated him with good reason.

     He rubbed his tired and no doubt bloodshot eyes. He would catch a few hours of sleep and then go find Cory first thing in the morning to see if she had recently received anything from Blue. As he rounded the corner, he noticed a door slightly ajar in the short hall connecting the lobby with the north annex. Probably a closet since the only other doors in the short corridor led to the men’s room and the ladies’ room.

     Mac paused when voices filtered through the open door.

“I’m tired of meeting you in housekeeping closets,” a feminine voice hissed. “You should at least take me to your room.”

     “We can’t be seen together,” a low masculine voice rumbled. “You know that. Senior has rules about me dallying with the help.”

     Mac stifled a snort. What an idiot.

     An indignant gasp erupted. “Is that all I am to you? Dallying? What kind of man hides a woman in a hotel broom closet at midnight? Who would ever see us anyway?”

     Good girl.

     Then, “Stop it. Let go of me.”

     Mac stayed put, unsure if he wanted to pass the cracked-open door. Maybe the woman needed help. If Mac planned to storm the closet, he better keep the element of surprise on his side.

     “You know you’re special to me,” the male voice argued.      “We’re in this together.”

     The woman had gone silent, apparently considering her options.

     “Aren’t we?” the wuss prodded.

     “Weeelll . . .”

     “Come on, Sugarbutt.”

     Mac grimaced at the ridiculous name, and when he heard the slurpy kiss that went with it, he figured to hell with it. Sugarbutt was officially on her own.

     He took a step.

     “All you need to do is sneak upstairs and get those documents for me. They’re in the top drawer of Senior’s desk, right-hand side.”

     Wuss had swiftly returned to his plotting, and the mention of documents perked up Mac’s spy antennae.

     “I don’t know.”

     “Come on, Sugarbutt.”

     “I don’t like that name.”

     Me either.

A low prurient chuckle sounded. “Why? You have the sweetest ass in the whole county. Maybe even the whole state.”

     Mac rolled his eyes.

     Sugarbutt fell for it. She giggled, more like tittered.

     “So you’ll get those documents for me?” Wuss persisted.

     “What if I get caught?”

     “You won’t.”

     “But what if I do?”

     “Then you’ll just say you were dropping off receipts,” Wuss offered. “Just be sure to take some with you.”

     “Why can’t you get the documents yourself?”

     Atta girl.

     “Because someone will tell Senior I was in his office, and he’ll think I’m up to something. He won’t stop until he finds out what it is.” Another slurpy kiss. “And all our plans will be ruined.”

     “Our plans?”

     “Sure, baby.”

     Another giggle erupted, and the door closed quietly. The lock snicked into place.

     Good. Saved Mac the trouble. Somebody was up to funny business in this hotel. Too tired to care, he found his room and tumbled into bed.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

     Vern Kroemer and Cory Rigatero stood side-by-side, gazing at the two ancient camellias that flanked the Bel Tesoro Resort entrance sign on the far side of the creek. Cory’s great-grandfather, Brocconi “Brock” Rigatero, had planted the twin shrubs when he built the first five cabins back in 1928. One twin remained a verdant giant, its shiny green leaves gleaming in the morning sun. Vern and Cory frowned at the other twin’s brown, desiccated leaves. Garth, Cory’s large black Labrador retriever, hunkered down at their feet, his tongue hanging crazily out the side of his mouth.

     “I don’t think this camellia is long for this world,” Vern pronounced his verdict.

     Cory’s father, Hutch Rigatero, had hired Vern twenty years ago as his grounds manager when Vern was discharged from the Marines. Hutch had a soft spot for veterans and was glad to learn Vern could fix darn near anything, so he quickly promoted Vern to resort maintenance manager—and eventually made him part of the family, leaving Cory in Vern’s care while Hutch chased after his wife across half the state.

     “It can’t be,” Cory protested. “Can’t you fix her?”

     Garth gave a compassionate whine, and Vern solemnly shook his head. “I tried. This twin is all done. I’m not even sure what killed . . . her.”

     Cory—at the ripe old age of seven—decided the two entrance camellias were a couple. The girl guarded the left side of the sign, and the boy guarded the right. Vern had always thought it was funny when she used pronouns for the shrubs, but he wasn’t laughing now.

     “Great-Grandpa Brock planted both of them when he built the resort. We can’t just let her die.”

     “I did the best I could, honey, but . . . she couldn’t be saved.”

     “I know you did, Vern.” Cory turned back to stare mournfully at the beleaguered shrub.

     “I’ll go get a shovel and give her a proper burial.” He strode off toward the barn.

     Cory thought she heard him mutter, “Out of sight, out of mind,” but she couldn’t be sure.

     Tears burned behind her eyelids, but she forced them away. She didn’t cry anymore. Ever. But if she did, now would be the time. Everything at Bel Tesoro had been slipping lately.

     Her gaze shifted to the large two-story Victorian home on the rise beyond the entrance sign. From this distance, the peeling paint, the sagging sections in the wrap-around porch, the cracked and split pieces of railing, and the two tilted shutters weren’t as obvious, but Cory knew where each and every problem was and how much the repairs would cost. Money she didn’t have. Lately, the resort had been lucky just to break even.

     That thought brought a fresh wave of melancholy. She had to maintain her stiff upper lip to keep the staff moving. She could not afford to be sentimental when her stack of problems kept growing each day. The dying camellia twin was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.

     Hearing the crunch of tires on gravel, she twisted around to see a beautifully restored 1959 red Cadillac Biarritz convertible pull up near the sign. For a brief moment, Cory’s heart lifted, thinking Harry Wojcik—her father’s best friend, wearing his signature Stetson—had stopped by for a visit. Instead, Percy Standish, Sr., removed his oversized Stetson and grinned at her.

     So the rumor was true.

     Standish stood at a medium height, medium build, and had a completely plain appearance. Unfortunately, he had a personality that insisted on compensating for his lack of distinction by running over everyone in his path—especially his son, Percy Standish, Jr., whom townsfolk had taken to calling Junior before he hit school. This led to the elder Standish being addressed as “Senior,” which he didn’t seem to mind one bit, as he clearly believed the name boosted his status in the community.

     Senior climbed out of the classic car and swaggered around the front of the Biarritz as if he owned the whole town of Clark. “Good morning, Cory.”

     She ignored him and turned back to the withered twin. She didn’t want the man here.

     He shot her a sharp look. “Are you mooning over some dead shrub?”

     She glared. “What do you want, Mr. Standish?”

     “I just stopped by to say good morning.”

     “Right.”

     He stiffened. “What? You don’t believe me? We are neighbors, after all.”

     Standish and his resort lodge owned two-thirds of the shoreline along Lewis Lake. The Rigatero resort owned the remaining third, so technically, they were neighbors.

     “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want something.”

     Senior glowered at her. “Show some respect, young lady. Your father wouldn’t have allowed you to take that tone with me.”

     Hutch Rigatero had always taught Cory to show respect to her elders, but she had run out of her allotment of respect for Senior Standish years earlier when he systematically forced Clark townsfolk to become indebted to him—either through threatened foreclosure, or the threat of removing his patronage from their businesses, which could virtually shut them down in a town the size of Clark. Well over half the town had become completely dependent on Lewis Lake Lodge’s largesse for their livelihood. The remaining half had succumbed to at least partial dependence on Senior. His influence extended to almost everyone in Clark.

     Except for Cory Rigatero.

     “My father’s dead, and I’ll take whatever tone I choose with the thief who cheated Harry Wojcik out of his Cadillac Biarritz.”

     Senior took a step forward. “How dare you?”

     Cory stood her ground. “How dare I what? Tell the truth?”

     “I paid Wojcik a fair price for his car. He accepted my offer. He didn’t have to. I’m not going to pay him more money just to be a nice guy. I wouldn’t be a successful businessman if I did that. I’d end up bankrupt.”

     “He didn’t choose to sell it,” she spouted indignantly. “He was forced to sell it to pay for his wife’s chemo. His insurance didn’t cover the whole fee.”

     Senior gave a condescending sniff. “Not my problem.”

     “So you took advantage and cheated him.”

     Senior’s beady black eyes glinted like the eyes on the Gila monsters Cory saw on the Discovery Channel the night before. The poisonous lizards would have a lot in common with Senior Standish.

     “I paid him twenty-eight thousand for his car. A fair price considering it’s over fifty years old.”

     “Fair?” she exploded. “That car is in perfect condition, and it’s been appraised at fifty thousand. You stole it!”

     Senior took a menacing step closer. “Why you—”

     Garth growled, and the hair on his back stood up. Senior’s eyes bugged wide.

     “Trouble, Cory?” came a voice from behind her.

     Thank you, Vern.

     She was glad her caretaker had shown up. She had pushed Senior a might harder than she initially planned, but it felt good.

     “No trouble, Vern,” she answered as he stepped up beside her. “Mr. Standish was just leaving.”

     Senior’s glare ricocheted between the two of them before shifting to Cory. “I’d had half a mind to make you another offer for your little resort, but your smart mouth just reduced the price I’m willing to pay.”

     “I wouldn’t accept an offer from you under any circumstances,” Cory shot back.

     “You should mind your manners, young lady!”

     “And I think you should leave.”

     “You’re losing money here every week,” Senior prodded stubbornly. “Do you want to lose the whole place to bankruptcy?”

     Cory took a step back as though he had slapped her. She’d never considered bankruptcy. Well, maybe she had and just shoved it from her mind.

     Vern stepped in front of her. “I believe the lady has asked you to vamoose.”

     “You’d best be careful too,” Standish warned Vern. “I also had half a mind to let you stay on when I take over this flea-bitten resort.”

     Garth eased up next to Vern and growled low in his throat.

     “Now,” Vern ordered.

     Senior threw up his hands and stomped back to the shiny Biarritz.

     “Half a mind is about right,” Vern muttered, and Cory smiled for the first time since she’d come outside.

     “Thanks for backing me up,” she told him.

     “Always. So, are the rumors true, then? Senior stole Harry’s Biarritz right out from under him?”

     “Looks that way.” She glared at the retreating Cadillac. “I hope somebody sticks it to Senior one day.”

     “You and half the town. Now, you go on inside and let me give the twin here a proper burial.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

     Mac had watched the scene at the entrance sign play out from his position in the shadows at the end of the wrap-around porch. His first glimpse of Corinna Rigatero hit him hard, like a sucker-punch, leaving no time to prepare or defend himself. This was not the fresh-faced eighteen-year-old sweetheart from his memories or even the young woman from her college days. Corinna had grown into a beautiful woman. No more gangly legs and slender girlish figure. She still had the silky brown hair and large green eyes from her youth, but her body had filled out nicely, especially in all his favorite places.

     Maybe a little too nicely. Like out of my league nicely.

     Mac stared—mesmerized—and when Cory flung her hair back over her shoulder to stare up at the caretaker, Mac’s mouth had gone dry thinking about being on the other side of that green-eyed gaze. He had tortured himself for years over his unplanned seduction—which he feared was wrong since he was twenty-four and so much older at the time—of the eighteen-year-old Cory and the passionate kisses he had stolen from her in the moonlight. He should have kept his distance, but something had drawn him to her, like a moth to a bug zapper. Maybe he had instinctively known what kind of woman she would become, and he’d just made his play early when the opportunity presented itself.

     Yeah right.

     Plain and simple, he’d had a thing for a girl six years younger than him and on the cusp of jailbait, which made him a pervert all right. But wow! Look at her now. He didn’t feel like a pervert now. He felt like a red-blooded American male staring at a beautiful, passionate woman. And yes, he was fully aware passion simmered beneath her surface. Even at eighteen, her sparks and sizzle had seared him. Marked him. He’d had one brief taste before he dragged himself away and done the honorable thing—disappeared.

     When Cory turned back to stare at the house, Mac was sure she had spotted him, but she only gazed forlornly at the old house with a sad, distant expression. The forlorn look on her face pinched the muscles around his heart and made him want to jog over and comfort her. Uncertainty kept him rooted, unsure of how she would react to his sudden appearance.

     Rising just after sunrise, Mac was eager to begin his mission. He’d paid his bill at the Lodge, stored the duffel in his rig, unloaded his Harley from the back, and taken off down River Road, enjoying the feel of the cool morning air on his face. He needed to clear his head before catching up with Blue’s little sister again.

     When he arrived at the resort and saw no signs of stirring in the big house or the barn, he coasted down the perimeter road to the far end of the resort, parked his bike, and went on foot to check the place out. Sadly, not much had changed since his last visit, just a little more disrepair.

     Cory’s resort sprawled on the east side of Lewis Lake and was a longer ride than he remembered from the town of Clark, due to the bridge washout he discovered at Wapassa Creek.

     The gravel entrance road to Bel Tesoro veered off the main highway and sloped down a winding drive toward Lewis Lake. Halfway along the drive was the entrance sign, and the large Victorian perched on a rise just beyond. Blue had once told him that his great-grandfather had been clever enough to build the house at an elevation higher than that of a hundred-year storm. The homestead may get cut off from the highway when Wapassa Creek surged its banks, but the main house would never flood.

     Past the house, the perimeter road curved toward the lake, and the second turnoff led to the enormous barn, which, oddly enough, looked to be in better shape than the house. Mac had poked his head in the large double doors to have a look. Half the barn consisted of two rows of stalls against each wall and a hayloft overhead. The horses had spotted him, and at least six long faces extended over their stall gates to eyeball and nicker at the intruder.

     In the back half of the barn, a collection of maintenance equipment surrounded a small shop in the far corner. Mac spied two John Deere riding mowers—one large and one small—an old push mower, about six different-sized ladders, and a mini-backhoe amongst the clutter. Lord knew what else lay back in the shadows where he couldn’t see. A large corral connected to the back of the barn, complete with a water trough and an exercise ring for the horses.

     A winding lane of charming log cabins stretched back into the fir trees lining the lakeshore. The cabins looked small by mountain resort standards and in need of repair—some had sagging shutters, others had doors that needed paint, and a few shingles were loose on all of them. The cabins began about fifty yards beyond the barn and curled around the lake, each with a gravel parking area in front and clusters of evergreen trees crowding the spaces between.

     Mac knew from Blue’s family stories that the cabins were built in three distinct eras. The first five were the smallest and could probably sleep no more than two or three people at most. The next five were definitely larger, nearly twice as big as the first five. The last ten were even bigger. All resort cabins were Ponderosa-pine log structures, built from trees that had grown on the site, and the logs were now plenty weathered.

     The last resort cabin was isolated from the others at the end of the line, as though needing extra privacy. Larger than all the rest, the solitary cabin had blue-gray clapboard siding, white shutters, and a shake roof.

     The legendary cabin.

     The large Victorian main house served as check-in and registration, which he already knew, and behind it was an expansive lawn and garden that stretched toward the lake. Between the rear garden and the lake were a dozen clusters of Douglas firs and spruce trees, adding rustic ambiance. A wide, white-sand beach, complete with a volleyball net, lined the lakeshore.

     At the far end of the beach stood a small plank structure against which rested a half-dozen kayaks and canoes. A short dock extended into the lake with three slips on each side—most of them empty, except for a couple of johnboats with small outboard motors. Overall, a quaint, well-laid-out resort that probably took a hell of a lot of work to maintain every day.

     The first time Mac and Blue stayed at the resort, Cory’s father, Hutch, had been managing it, and honestly, the place had looked to be in much better shape then. Now, it looked a bit . . . rundown.

     He heaved a sigh. Cory had been going it alone for the past four years with only Vern to help since her father passed. How had she managed? Probably on a wing and a prayer. And now, as he stared at the desolate look on her face, he knew times had been a lot tougher at Bel Tesoro than Vern had led Blue to believe. Mac and Blue had come home for Hutch’s funeral but hadn’t let anyone other than Vern know they were there. The old caretaker wasn’t happy about the secrecy, but he agreed to keep silent. Cory’s safety came first.

     Just as Mac was about to approach Cory, the classic car arrived, and he stepped further into the shadows. The fewer people in Clark who knew of his existence just yet, the better.

     Mac didn’t like the looks of the newcomer on sight and liked even less the way the guy treated Cory. If she thought this guy, Standish, was a thief, then he was, and Mac decided the guy would bear closer scrutiny. When Standish stepped toward Cory, a wave of protectiveness swept over Mac, and he stepped out of the shadows, his hands knuckling into fists. The old caretaker Vern reached her first, and her black dog also took exception to the thief.

     Smart dog.

     Cory had declared, “No trouble, Vern,” but Mac would corner the caretaker for information as soon as Cory left.

     The thief Standish marched to his car, and Mac slipped back into the shadows, glad to delay his first meeting with Cory until he had gathered a few answers to some pressing questions.

     Cory and her dog trotted toward the big house, and Mac ducked around back. He planned to slip over to the barn to wait for Vern. What he really wanted to do was follow that Standish character and find out why he wanted Cory’s resort, but Mac needed to set up his mission home base first. And that was right here.

     As he strode toward the barn, Mac saw a young man about Cory’s age jogging over from the first row of cabins, and Mac ducked into the cluster of red alders near the pump house out back.

     “Cory! Wait!” the jogger called out.

     She glanced up, and her expression eased as some of her earlier stress and hopelessness disappeared.

     A strange compression squeezed at Mac’s chest.

     “Morning, Jasper.” She waited for him to catch up.

     The lanky, sandy-haired Jasper skidded to a stop and put his hands on her shoulders.

     What the hell?

     Mac stifled a growl. Vern’s letters hadn’t mentioned any boyfriend, so he assumed Cory was unattached.

     “Vern told me about the twin. I’m so sorry,” Jasper said tenderly.

     “Thanks. You’re sweet to care.”

     “I worry about you.” Jasper tugged her into his arms for a hug.

     Seeing Cory’s arms wrapped around the guy’s waist bothered Mac more than he was willing to admit. So much for the complete rundown on Cory’s life Blue had been promised. How much had Vern kept from the two of them? Or from Blue? Mac sighed.

     He edged out of the shrub cover and hustled around the front of the house toward the entrance sign. No more waiting for him. Old Vern had some explaining to do.